


In One Piece

by evitably



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Body Horror, Gen, Horror, Sewing, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-01
Updated: 2012-11-01
Packaged: 2017-11-17 12:22:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/551527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evitably/pseuds/evitably
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dirk is Gamzee's first attempt at sewing flesh.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In One Piece

**Author's Note:**

> A tumblr fic, originally posted [here](http://doughtier.tumblr.com/post/34547027958), written for [nevernoahh's art](http://nevernoahh.tumblr.com/post/29092858448/um) of Dirk with a sword in his torso and his neck half-attached.

Consciousness comes first: quick, violent and impossible. Dirk would breathe if he could, but he doesn't have the function of his lungs yet; all he has is awareness.

Next comes the pain: sharp and encompassing and infuriatingly repetitive. It's hard for him to say where the pain is coming _from_ , because he hurts all over, and he still can't move.

Sound is the third thing Dirk's aware of, but it doesn't do him much good. He hears breathing somewhere next to him, and it sounds nothing like any of the carapaces he's ever met. Carapaces' breathing is fast and whistly, and what Dirk's hearing is not it.

Next: touch. There are fingers about his neck, too many for it to be one person, too rough for them to be human and too soft for them to be carapace. Dirk understands the repetitiveness of the pain now, because the fingers drive something into the skin of his neck and then take it back out and again and again. A burn follows the pricks in his skin, but it's low and not as important as the acute pain in his neck.

He tries moving his hands, but none of his fingers twitch at his command. If he could, he'd focus on his other self, the one in the medium. He'd much rather be that Dirk than this one, but the pain is too strong for him to ignore. He hopes nothing kills his other self in the meantime.

Lungs. Lungs are good. Dirk finds he can breathe now. He sucks in a a breath, lets it out, then again. He can move his fingers a little, too, but that's secondary to the heady rush of oxygen that leaves a sweet trail of fire down his throat.

The flat of someone's palm comes down to press on his back, and Dirk struggles as much as he can to get it off. It presses harder and harder, forcing him to flatten against what feels like the floor, and distantly (but in all actuality right next to his ear) another says irritably, "Motherfucker moves too much."

One set of the fingers leaves his neck, and there's rattling somewhere nearby, then that same person speaks again. "This will give him some chill."

Dirk doesn't know what that means, but he doesn't expect it to mean what it down: the sharp end of a sword being driven into his esophageal plexus and all the way down to the floor.

"Better," Dirk hears in the sudden silence of failing to scream. He's straining against the sword, unable to convince his vocal cords to work. His other self screams for him and collapses onto his knees, but that's not enough to help the him who's in this place right now.

A few moments pass before Dirk can draw in some shallow breaths back into his lungs again. They have to be slow and controlled, or he'll hurt worse than he already does. The people at his neck seem to approve of that: one of them pats him on the head.

Sight comes back next. At first Dirk can't see even with his eyes open, because there are dark spots covering almost his entire vision, but bit by bit they retreat and give way to actual images that don't make any sense, mostly because Her Imperious Condescension is the last of her kind, yet here above him are two of the same species.

They look very much the same, the two of them, except that one has sewn his mouth shut and the other has three purplish scars running down his face. Their hands are painted red with his blood, holding needles between their fingers and --

\-- Dirk remembers: he's dead.

He tries asking himself how that could be, but he can't hold onto a single thread of thought for longer than a moment, but as soon as he blinks, everything slips away as fast as it comes.

The two pause when they see him looking at them, but only the one with the scratches acknowledges him. The other looks back down and resumes stitching Dirk's head back to his body.

Scratch-face says, "Motherfucking miracle workers, that's what we are." And it's not like Dirk can answer; his head is only half-attached and these two have put a sword through his chest, and he can hardly breathe let alone respond to anything they say. Scratch-face smiles, slow and lazy and proud, as if he and his buddy aren't busy sewing Dirk back to one piece.

There's a tap on the skin of his neck, right where it hurts the most. Sewed-mouth nods at Scratch-face, and they test the stitching by trying to tug his head off. They seem pleased when it stays attached to the rest of him -- even Sewed-mouth is smiling despite how the stitches pull at his mouth.

"Kinda uneven." Scratch-face trails his fingers over Dirk's neck. "Next one will be better."

Dirk doesn't know anything about a next one, but it's hard to miss the way Scratch-face pats his cheek absently, or the way he and Sewed-mouth get up and leave, or how he's still pinned to the floor with a sword that might be his own.

He closes his eyes and waits for something that never comes.


End file.
